Y: Why is it so hard for us to say goodbye and let it go even though we know it’s been over even before it had begun? (…)  I guess that’s what they call love, isn’t it? Beating yourself over and over. What was that phrase that your favourite writer used to say? 'Find what you love and let it kill you'?

M: That’s not love, babe. Don’t fool yourself. And stop trying fooling me.

Y: See? Even when we realized it’s over and I just try to tell you that I love you – and always will – you have to shut me up. Christ, you’re a moron.

M: It’s passion, hormones. SEX. Not love. I love books. I love staying on bed for a whole morning. I love sitting alone in my balcony listening to Elliott Smith and smoking my lungs out. But you… I want you. Badly. You’re more than a disease. You grow and take me over. The whole me. Head, heart, shoulders, knees, hands. I feel you, become you. So, how the hell can I love you if I’m not myself?